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“It’s over,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re finally safe.”
I lean into him, drawing strength from his solid presence. “I know,” I whisper back. “It’s just—”
Suddenly I remember something. “Oh my God, Dante, the champagne,” I say, “Bianca poisoned it. She may have poisoned more.”
Shock ripples through the assembled men, and Nico’s face is the hardest I’ve seen it yet. He looks like a storm that’s about to erupt.
“Bar the gates,” he commands as he yanks off his tie. “Not a single Rinaldi, no soul from New York, in fact, leaves this mansion in their bodies.”
As chaos erupts around us, Dante’s arms tighten around me protectively. “Let me take you home. We’ll get you cleaned up.”
“I don’t want to go,” I blurt out. “Not yet.” My cheeks burn as every eye in the small room swings to me.
How can I say I still want to get married right here and now? In my father’s house, covered in blood while justice is being served right outside the door.
But I don’t need to. Because Dante’s eyes find mine, a silent question in their depths.
Hell yes, I’m still up for becoming your wife today. A little gore isn’t going to stop me.
I see the moment he gets it. He never fails to get it, this man.
“Tesoro,” Dante whispers, one word heavy with meaning.
I manage a small smile, covering his still shaking hands with mine. “What?” I whisper, “I’m learning from the best.”
***
An hour later, Dante and I stand face-to-face in De Luca’s library. The room, with its walls of leather-bound books and the lingering scent of aged paper, seems a fitting place for this moment. It feels right to be marrying the man who pulled me out of the mire when I didn’t realize I was drowning. The man who showed me who I really am, in this unconventional setting.
His eyes, steely and intense, never leave mine as we exchange our vows.
I’m acutely aware of the state of my dress. Once pristine, it is now painted with the fury of a woman scorned. Stained with the blood of my mother’s killer, the woman who left scars on me. There’s a poetic justice to it, a deep satisfaction that I’m not quite ready to examine.
As we speak the words that bind us together, I know without a doubt that this is where I’m meant to be. With this man, in this world, for better or worse.
“I do,” I respond to the priest’s prompt.
Then Dante’s hand cups my face, his touch gentle despite the strength in his hands from years of hard living. As his lips meet mine, I feel the last pieces of my old life fall away.
I am Adele Valentina Vitelli. Wife, mother, survivor.
And I will defend my right to be her with violence and blood.
Epilogue
Adele
ONE YEAR LATER
The Bentley’s engine purrs into silence as we pull up to the Fortress. Gilded by the setting sun, Dante’s profile captivates me – the tantalizing groove in his cheeks a testament to his reluctant joy.
I slide my hand up his thigh. “Happy birthday, carissimo.”
Dante’s gray eyes meet mine, swirling with heat. “I still can’t believe you arranged this,” he murmurs, gesturing to the mansion.
It had taken weeks of cajoling to get Dante to agree to a joint celebration with the twins, and even longer to plan a party that could satisfy both toddlers and hardened mafiosos. My husband, ever the selfless one, would move mountains to surprise me or orchestrate a getaway for Nico and Sophie, but rarely spares a thought for his own happiness.
“You’re forever putting everyone else first,” I say, my fingernails tracing patterns on his expensive wool suit pants. “Me, Luca,” – I nod toward our sleeping six-month-old in the backseat – “Nico, the whole fucking Outfit. Let us do this for you, baby.”
